


of nail polish and hugs

by nightkat



Series: batfamily adventures [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Batman - Freeform, Bruce Wayne - Freeform, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Dick Grayson - Freeform, Family, Fluff, Gen, Protective Bruce Wayne, Robin - Freeform, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightkat/pseuds/nightkat
Summary: in which little Dick Grayson wants to paint his nails, and The Batman helps him





	1. Chapter 1

It started off as a normal morning in the Wayne household. Dick was already at the table, chatting energetically to an amused Alfred while eating his favorite breakfast food. He was already in his uniform--his  _school_  uniform, not the other one--because Bruce had insisted he go to the best academy in Gotham, which was of course a stuffy private school. His school backpack sat on the chair next to him, his essay he did last minute due to his  _nighttime_  activities stuffed messily in the first pocket. Bruce had at least double checked his work and gave an approved grunt, so Dick figured it would at least receive a passing grade.

Alfred was just pouring a large cup of coffee when Bruce finally shuffled in, still in his night robe. It had been a long night in Gotham. Poison Ivy and Killer Croc formed an unlikely duo and broke out of Arkham Asylum. Due to the high level of danger, Batman forbid Robin to go with him, much to the latter's disappointment. It wasn't until four in the morning when Batman stumbled in, Alfred already waiting to dress his wounds and send him to bed.

"Hey, Bruce," Dick chirped, swinging his legs back and forth and squirming in his seat. Alfred gave it about seven more minutes before the young man had to jump up and run around the manor.

Bruce grunted in reply, swiping at the cup of coffee on his way to the table. If it were up to him, he would still be in bed until noon, but being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises meant long, tedious meetings for the annual budget and upcoming charity ball. 

"I'm going to Bab's house today after school," Dick continued, undeterred by Bruce's response, or lack of. "We're working on a science project together. We think we're going to do it about Gotham's environmental policies and stuff for science, but we need to collect, like, data. Do you think I could use the bat computer to get some info?" Dick shot his adopted father a pleading expression, knowing that getting permission to use the bat computer was always a 50/50 chance with Bruce, depending on his mood. When Bruce didn't reply, he clasped his small hands together, " _Please,_  Bruce? I swear, only for some environmental systems and policies I  _know_  Batman keeps tabs on. Please, please, please-"

Bruce grimaced, unable to look at Dick's puppy face, because he knew even as Batman he couldn't deny Dick anything. Instead, he focused on stabbing his pancakes. "Hm," he finally said.

Dick pumped his fists in the air. "Yes!" he crowed, having spent a year learning to distinguish all of Bruce's  _hms_  and grunts. This was definitely an approval  _hm_. "Thanks, Bruce."

"I advise you finish your breakfast, Master Dick," Alfred cut in, pouring the young man a glass of orange juice. "We will be leaving for your school in twenty minutes, and you still have to brush your teeth. And drink all of that. Heavens knows the flu is going around."

"I don't get sick, Alfred," Dick said, but drank the orange juice anyway. Bruce snorted into his coffee.

"Ah, yes, I must have dreamed of taking care of a certain young man who had come down with a nasty cold three weeks ago," Alfred said.

Dick sent the butler a dazzling smile that usually won over any crowd and got rich billionaires signing checks at Bruce's charity balls. "Yep, all a dream. Robin doesn't get sick!" 

Bruce sighed and put his now empty cup down on the table. "Eat your breakfast, Dick," he uttered his first words of the morning. "Alfred will take you to get fitted for your suit after Barbara's house."

The boy hurriedly shoveled in some bacon into his mouth and gulped down the orange juice. Alfred winced. "For the charity ball?" Dick made a face. "Do I have to go?"

"Yes. The commissioner will be there."

Dick lit up. "So, Barbara will be, too?"

"Possibly."

"Cool." Dick smiled and picked up his fork again. A comfortable silence filled the air once Dick couldn’t talk while shoving in the last few pancakes in his mouth. Bruce enjoyed what he knew would be a temporary silence (leave it to him to adopt a _talkative_ kid) and opened the first page of the newspaper. Bruce Wayne was once again the lead story, another scandal apparently, and the man snorted in amusement.

“Hey, Bruce?” Dick asked. Alfred was impressed. Four minutes of silence from the boy.

Bruce grunted, still reading the current stock market.

“Can you paint my nails?”

"Can I paint--you want your nails painted?" Bruce lowered the paper to blink down at his son, taken aback by the request. The Batman was never surprised, but Bruce Wayne with a what-was-Dick’s-age-again kid should learn by now to expect the unexpected in his household. “Why?”

There was something in Bruce’s tone that made Dick shrink back and rethink his request. He looked down at his blunt, plain nails and remembered some of his classmates’ sparkly ones that they got done in a place called a sale-on or something. “It’s just, Babs is probably going to get her nails done for the ball, and—and my _mom_ used to save up money for nail polish to paint her nails before a big show, you know, nail polish was _expensive_ , but she said it makes her, I don’t know, own the show, and—and it’ll be just in time for the ball—”

Alfred put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Breathe, Master Dick,” he said, while Bruce’s eyebrows drew closer together.

A struggle between giving his son what he wanted and protecting him from society warred inside Bruce. Dick’s request was unusual, but he was hardly the person to say no to the unusual. He looked to Alfred for help, but the butler now conveniently had his back towards them.

"Boys usually don't paint their nails, Dick," Bruce finally managed to say. 

That seemed to make the small boy even smaller, but a stubborn pout was making his way on his lips. "So?"

Bruce ran a hand over his stubble, suddenly way too tired to argue with a is-he-a-teenager? teenager. "Okay," he said softly. "Alfred can bring you to a salon tomorrow."

"No!" Dick suddenly protested. "I want you to paint them."

"I--Dick, I don't know how to paint nails."

"Batman knows how to do everything!"

"Not paint nails."

" _Uh huh!"_

"I believe it is time for you to wash up, Master Dick, and prepare for school," Alfred interrupted, his lips twitching at the flustered Bruce and determined Dick. He refilled Bruce's coffee while giving Dick a raised eyebrow. "Come now, don't stall. Go on."

Dick crossed his arms. "I'm not going to school until Bruce agrees to paint my nails!"

"You're going to school regardless of my answer," Bruce said sternly and watched as his son deflated. Sucking in a deep sigh and wondered once again why he decided to adopt a child, he looked up at the ceiling as he said, "Alright. Before patrol and after your homework, I can _try_ to paint your nails."

The resulting whoop and hug he got from Dick was worth the sudden worry that came to his mind,  _where the hell am I going to get nail polish?_

* * *

 

 

Bruce kept his promise. Robin had gleefully gone on patrol that night with his newly painted red nails under his gloves. The boy didn't care that one of his nails had an uneven coat and that it took nine panicked phone calls to Selina Kyle from Bruce on how to properly paint nails. He didn't mind that Bruce had to try four times to paint his pinkie finger right and that he learned a new curse word when Bruce accidentally knocked over the nail bottle. He loved his nails, and said so to Bruce in adoration. He couldn't wait to show his classmates at school.

Bruce was satisfied with how it turned out, and even more when he saw how happy Dick was when he tucked him in at bed after the long patrol. Which is why he didn't expect Dick to enter the manor silently sobbing the day after. Dick threw his backpack onto the floor, not once sparing a glance to Bruce, and ran up to his room before Bruce could even react from his seat on the couch. A concerned Alfred hurried in after, jerking his head up at the sound of Dick's bedroom door slamming, and winced when a picture frame fell from the vibrations. 

"What happened?" Bruce demanded, shoving his business papers aside and standing up.

"I'm not sure, sir," Alfred replied, worried. "He entered the car rather distressed, but would not talk on the way over. He didn’t start crying until half way.”

The father ran a hand through his hair, feeling ten times older than he actually was. “Okay,” he took a deep breath. “Okay. A crying kid. I think this is the part where I leave him be and let him figure it out himself?” Bruce winced at the scathing look Alfred directed at him. “No?”

“Absolutely not, Master Bruce!” Alfred lectured. “You may have been that way as a child, but Master Dick requires more than long hours of moping to himself in his room. You must talk to him at once.”

“I didn’t mope,” Bruce grumbled, but was already heading towards the stairs. Apprehension filled him as he neared Dick’s room. But what if Alfred was wrong, and Dick preferred to be alone? What if this was a—a teenage thing? Wait, was Dick a teenager? He wasn’t in middle school, yet. Okay, maybe not a teenager. But it could be one of those things a father shouldn’t involve himself in. Maybe he should just turn around—

His doubts stopped when he heard the light sobs of Dick through the door. That was his son behind the door. Crying. Of course he should find out what caused his son’s tears. And maybe track down the source as Batman later. Bruce’s demeanor softened, and he found himself knocking gently, “Dick? Can I come in?”

The crying stopped, and then, a croaked “Okay,” came through the door.

Bruce quickly entered and spotted Dick under the covers of his bed, tufts of dark hair poking from the sheets. He gently sat on the edge, careful to not jostle the boy, and rested a hand on Dick’s back. “What’s wrong, chum? Did something happen at school?” When no answer came, he rubbed long strokes on Dick’s back and cleared his throat awkwardly. “You can tell me. I’ll help you as best as I can. I’m Batman, remember?”

That got out a huff from Dick, and then blue, teary eyes were peaking up at him. “They didn’t like my nails.”

Bruce’s heart broke, but the confession didn’t come as a surprise. He knew there might be backlash, even with how much Gotham Academy boasts an accepting environment. “Did they say something to you?”

“They called me a girl.” Tears welled up again, and Bruce could feel his anger accumulating in his chest. “But—but then they started me other names. I don’t know what they mean, but it sounded bad, and they said having my nails painted only proved it.”

Ice settled into Bruce’s chest. He was aware that adopting a Romani child from a circus would mean dealing with racism and homophobia against his son, but still—

“What did they call you?” Bruce murmured, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice.

Dick’s fist came out from under the blanket to scrub at the new tears. He sobbed through the names they called him, and Bruce closed his eyes angrily at the confirmation. Blood rushed to his ears with the extreme fury he felt.

How _dare_ those kids call his son those _slurs_? What were these parents teaching them? Where were the teachers? They just allowed this blatant bullying and discrimination? Well, he was going to have a talk to the dean about that. Maybe buy the whole goddamn school if he needed to. Dick didn’t deserve to be called those degrading names. Nobody did, but especially Dick, who had lost his parents in cold murder and watched as the world called his parents the same slurs with no empathy.

“Bruce?” a small hand came to clutch his suit. “Are you mad at me?”

Bruce released a deep breath he was holding, willing the tension in his body to ease away. “No, chum,” he said softly, resuming his soothing, rubbing motions. “I’m mad at those kids.”

“What do those words mean?”

He honestly did not know how to answer that. How do you explain something so vile to a kid? Bruce looked down at Dick and gave a half smile at the still-teary, curious face. He scooted further into the bed and opened his arms. “Come here.” In seconds, his lap was filled with an adolescent child. Dick didn’t hesitate at all. It was rare for Bruce to initiate affection in the form of contact. Wrapping his arms around Dick, Bruce rested chin on Dick’s head and sighed. “They’re slurs no one should repeat,” he said slowly. “They are words to attack your identity and dehumanize you. I’m sorry you had to hear them. But Dick? I want you to listen to me.”

At this, Dick shifted so that he could look at his adopted father’s eyes, finding grave seriousness and truth in them.

“If anyone _ever_ calls you one of those names again, I want you to punch them square in the nose.”

Dick recoiled. “What?” he gaped in shock. Was this the same Batman that told him he couldn’t use his Robin skills to defend himself in small situations in school? Was this the same Batman that grounded him for a whole week because he pushed a kid out of anger?

“I’m not talking about kids calling you a jerk, or a loser, but if they call you one of those slurs, you have my permission.” Bruce smiled chillingly. “I can deal with the aftermath.”

Dick considered this for a minute. It must be really serious and bad if Bruce was giving him permission. “Okay.” He reburied his nose in Bruce’s chest, finding comfort at the strong heartbeat through the many layers of Bruce’s suit. This had been a horrible day, especially when he had come to school excited to show off his nails. His nails that Bruce had taken time out of his day to help paint. “Thanks for painting my nails.” Dick sniffed, gripping Bruce’s shirt. “Even though I’ll have to remove them for the ball.”

“You don’t have to, Dick,” Bruce said softly. “If you like your nails, then you can have it painted for the ball.”

“But, won’t you be ‘barassed ‘cause of me? If kids are this bad, those stuffy, old people will be worse.” Dick sniffed again and rubbed his nose against Bruce’s chest, smearing snot all over, but neither cared.

Bruce tightened his arms around his son. “I’ll never be embarrassed of you, Dick. I’m always proud of you.” He let the silence take over the room for a moment, before, “In fact, I have an idea. Want to help?”

 

* * *

 

 

On a Saturday morning, the Wayne household started off as usual, again. Dick was at the table, chattering and recounting the entire charity ball to Alfred, as if the butler hadn’t attended. Bruce sat behind his newspaper, amused, but found himself listening to Dick’s gushing about the ‘old, stuffy people’ and Barbara and the weird looks people gave him but that was okay because _Bruce_ made it better.

Dick caught his eye over the paper. The boy gave Bruce a huge grin. Bruce gave a raised eyebrow back, flipping the page while letting Dick read the large headline on the front page of the paper. The headline, framed by large fingers and primly painted black, _sparkly_ nails, exclaimed in dark bold letters: ‘BRUCE WAYNE DEFIES STANDARDS? ATTENDS CHARITY BALL WITH PAINTED NAILS BY SON’


	2. bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of long year traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the love! I wrote this bonus piece as a silly thing, but I guess I should share this short piece.

Jason Todd was exhausted. After scaring a few drug dealers to death and kicking the crap out of a robber, Red Hood decided to end patrol early and head home. He considered going to manor to take up on Dick's dinner invitation, but then with how much gun powder and the smell of metal clung to his leather jacket, Bruce would probably throw a fit and ruin the night. Honestly, the old man couldn't get off his back. You would think dying would lighten the man up or something.

Well, it looks like another night of mac n' cheese for him. Yum.

As he mounted his bike and adjusted his helmet, his comm link came to life, and an annoying voice filled his ear:

" _Ja-a-s-on,"_ Dick moaned. "You  _said_ you would come to dinner."

Jason rolled his eyes and revved up his motorcycle. "Isn't this supposed to be for emergency lines only, Dick head?"

"This is an emergency! A  _family_ emergency!"

"Something came up," Todd said with exasperation, maneuvering off the curb and speeding down Gotham streets. "Uh, Black Mask. He got away."

"Black Mask is literally across the country. Remember? You scared him off? Try again!"

"The Joker--" he tried.

"Seriously? Using your murderer as an excuse? The one who I can see on the screen right now, tied up in Arkham Asylum?" Dick huffed when Jason didn't answer and changed tactics. "We haven't seen you in forever. I promise Bruce will be on his best behavior. Since you already missed dinner, how about dessert? Alfred made his cookies!"

Damn. Using Alfred's cookies. Dick knew he was weak to them. "Fine," Jason bit out and gave a sharp turn towards Wayne manor. "But only for the cookies."

"Sure, sure. See you, Jaybird!"

* * *

 

Jason didn't know what he was expecting when he entered Wayne manor, but it certainly wasn't _this_. After standing around like a loser for ten minutes outside the door, Alfred had taken pity on him and opened it, welcoming him in with a smile.

"Welcome, Master Jason," Alfred greeted. "Master Dick and Master Bruce are in the family room. I'm afraid Master Timothy and Master Damian are away at the moment."

Good. That was good. Less bat people to deal with. "Thanks Alfred," he replied with a sardonic smile. "Any chance you could just give me the cookies, and I can leave?"

"No chance!" came a shout from far down the hall. Dick. "You're here, so might as well stay!"

A grimace pulled on the second Robin's lips, while Alfred, in his usual amused manner, led him down to the room. Again, did not expect this--this whatever it was in front of him.

Bruce, in his stocky, awkward self, sat on the couch and was leaning over the coffee table in serious concentration. Dick was on the other side, his hands on the table, fingers splayed out. Several nail polish bottles littered the rest of the table. Currently the blue one was in use, the brush looking tiny in Bruce's large hands as he tried once again to color Dick's fingers.

"Jaybird!" Dick crowed, but then winced in apology when he accidentally moved, resulting in a small curse from Bruce. Cotton. Nail polish remover. Restart. "We thought we'd be done by the time you came, but we couldn't find the blue one until last minute."

Bruce grunted, but after years of living with the man, Jason knew the grunt wasn't full of annoyance, but of acknowledgement. "Jason," Bruce greeted tersely. He didn't look up from his project, nor did he show any embarrassment for being caught in--in what was this?"

"What," Jason started. " _the fuck?"_

"Language," Bruce said automatically. 

"What the fuck, _sir_?" he shot back sarcastically. Bruce gave a sigh, but didn't reply. Oh. So maybe Dick did get him to promise best behavior. "Seriously, what are you guys doing?"

Dick flashed a flashy smile and shrugged. "Every year, Bruce paints my nails. Don't tell me you didn't see all those years you lived here, Jason?"

Jason vaguely remembered seeing painted nails on his oldest brother once or twice while growing up, but chalked it up to one of Dick's many quirks. He didn't realize it was a  _thing_.

He observed the scene some more, letting Alfred take his jacket and numbly taking the hot chocolate offered. He watched from the doorway as Bruce's lips lifted in a half smile at Dick's jokes, watched as hands that usually punched the lights out of criminals gently handle Dick's hands and accurately paint the nails in a disturbingly professional fashion. He watched as no annoyance came to Bruce's face when Dick asked for a sparkly top coat, and when Dick, bless him, couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes and twitched, leaving Bruce to clean up the spilled polish.

Suddenly, Jason was crossing the room and crashing into the seat right next to Dick's. Fuck this. Dick can't be the only star child.

Bruce was just about about to start on the last finger of Dick's when his vision was blocked by a rough, scarred hand and chipped nails. 

"Red," Jason demanded. "No sparkle shit, though."

Bruce blinked. Leaned back. Raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Jason nodded at the nail polish bottles on the floor. "I see you have it. Dark red. Oh, and," Jason wiggled his fingers and smirked. "File them, too. They've had some rough treatment over the years."

Bruce and Dick shared a glance. Dick, ecstatic at the family time, shrugged and smiled. He moved to the side to give Jason more space.

Bruce sighed, capped the blue bottle, and reached for the red one.

"Red, it is."

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me of any typos or mistakes! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
